


Murder Always Leads To Sherlock

by Ijustneed12percentofamoment



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Gen, I have no idea where this came from, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8594614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustneed12percentofamoment/pseuds/Ijustneed12percentofamoment
Summary: Watson manoeuvred through the scattered yellow numbers... His steady gaze swept across the extravagant material and the ethereal features of her lifeless face.The Queen is dead. Stuck in a different world and with only a scattered memory of what he was torn away from, Watson finds a way to get home to Sherlock.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I do not own any Conan Doyle or Lewis Carroll characters, only the few necessary and nameless FBI agents, the tree creatures and the cat.

 

The forensics team hovered carefully around the body, trying to avoid stirring the thick film of dust that covered every surface in the rundown apartment. A body in downtown New Jersey wasn’t all that uncommon, especially in an empty shell like this, however the complete lack of prints, ID and apparent entrance or exit of the murderer had the FBI baffled. Not just that, but the Jane Doe was dressed in the most lavish silver and red velvet dress that the blood from the two GSW’s were almost camouflaged against the rich material.

The team’s forensic photographer was crouching to take a close-up of the elaborate crystal and twisted wire crown that had fallen from the woman’s head either during the struggle or when she fell, before landing over by the stained wall. The photographer stood up and came face to face with a grey cat sitting on the ledge of the open window, its big blue eyes carefully watching her and the rest of her team at work.

‘Hey there.’ The photographer said, smiling at the large cat and giving it a quick head scratch. It immediately began purring like an engine. ‘Sorry buddy, strictly off limits.’ She said, reaching up and pulling down the window that had been covered in decade-old newspaper, blocking the cat’s view and entrance into the room. The woman wiped the collected grime from the window from her gloved fingers and returned to her job.

With the sun shining behind it, the cat’s silhouette was twice as large against the newsprint, almost as large as the window as it stretched and jumped down from the ledge, bristling from being ignored.

 

Downstairs, Watson entered the building and walked passed police officers and more forensics who barely looked at him – they were all too busy in their own conversations to ever look over. Since arriving in New York, Watson had arrived and analysed dozens of crime scenes and bodies, all without ever bothering the FBI or the clean up team. If they ever did come across him, they told him he should go, or he’d be in the way – like he’d never done detective work before. Watson raised an eyebrow, waiting by the base of the stairs as three FBI agents clattered their way down, before he made his way up unseen. It’s like they didn’t understand that he was a detective just like them – not that he exactly had a badge to prove it…

But detective work filled the gap that he had inside him. He felt like it brought him steadily closer to something he had lost – only Watson didn’t quite remember what that something was.

He made his way silently up to the room where the body was, and entered the crime scene as the team was distracted out in the hall with evidence and making a list of costume suppliers.

The room was empty save for the body.

Watson manoeuvred through the scattered yellow numbers, spared a glance at the closed window and the footprints left behind in the dust by the FBI before moving in on the body. His steady gaze swept across the extravagant material and the ethereal features of her lifeless face.

_The Queen is dead._

He wasn’t sure where the thought had suddenly come from – besides from the crown, there was no real evidence her clothes suggested she was dressed as a queen – but somehow he just _knew_ that whoever she was, wherever she had come from, she had power. And that her power hadn’t been the good kind.

Despite the closed window, a breeze swept over Watson and he picked up a familiar scent. It wasn’t from the body, and he turned in the direction the breeze had come from, the sudden urge to know driving him forwards.

The smell was so familiar, yet he couldn’t pinpoint the scent. It was something light and sweet and dark and crackling with spice. It was the scent of a memory, and Watson caught flashes of autumn leaves falling from mammoth trees that stretched into the sky; purpling skies like watercolours, as the sun set on the horizon; fire engulfing the mountainside; animals and people alike murdered and left behind; his own reflection in a mirror, before the sensation of falling–

Suddenly that something Watson had been missing had a name.

 _Sherlock_.

Directly opposite the Queens body, Watson found the source of the breeze from inside a cupboard. He cracked it open and was met with darkness within, but the scent of that memory, of _home_ , continued to pull him forwards, into the shallow wooden cupboard. He let the door close behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The back of the cupboard seemed to shimmer before him, like the dust inside the small space was agitating the surface. Taking another deep breath of the air coming through this seemingly solid surface, Watson closed his eyes and took a tentative step forward – letting his face slide through a wall of water-like gel. It wasn’t wet but it was cold and left condensation on his face. But as soon as his head and shoulders were on the other side, Watson was drawn forward with an intense pull, and gravity soon tugged the rest of his body through the portal.

For the second time in as many minutes, Watson felt the giddy weightlessness of falling. 

 

…

 

He could hear leaves rustling; the ground was warm beneath him and the soft summer breeze washed over his face as he stirred. Another sharp rustle and a tiny gasp made him flinch awake.

‘Oh my!’ Came the squeaky voice, and Watson looked up to see a white rabbit standing curiously over him, dressed impeccably in a gold and navy pinstripe waistcoat.

‘Where am I?’ Watson muttered, frowning at his surroundings as he got to his feet.

The little creature gasped again and Watson saw his sharp pink eyes widen in disbelief.

‘Could it really be?’ he held a little white paw to his face, his nose twitching furiously. ‘I say, Watson! You’re back!’

‘Back?’ Watson frowned again, looking up to see if he could see where he had fallen from. Instead, he saw the underside of the biggest tree he had seen in his life, the lowest branches were only feet above his head, but they stretched outwards from the trunk like a giant’s umbrella. Amongst the golden leaves he saw a metropolis of tiny animals and sprite-creatures, busily climbing and flying and singing. Watson watched as two miniscule elven-like men, with leaf green skin and white hair, clung to falling leaves like parachutes, crying out with crazed joy as they twirled down to the forest floor and he grinned, mesmerised.

‘–quite late, yes, quite late indeed my friend.’ The rabbit was rambling at top speed, Watson missing all of the beginning and most of the middle. ‘He’ll be so glad to hear you’re back and still alive, oh you poor soul, when the Queen sent you through the portal, we all feared you were lost forever! The tragedy! The despair! Oh, the war was so terrible, you know, but my, that was _months_ ago now, when the Queen was killed. Dear me, how the time changes, Watson!’

‘Hold on a second,’ Watson stopped the flood of the rabbit’s rapid mutterings before he could start again.

‘Months?’ He thought of the body in the apartment – it couldn’t have been more than 24 hours old.

‘Yes, about eight months – a young warrior killed her in one of her own portals, and saved all of us!’

_If 24 hours is eight months, then how long have I been gone for…?_

‘Wait, you said something about ‘he’ll be glad I’m back’? You…you mean…Sherlock?’ Watson grappled with the shifting, vague familiarity of this place that was so odd, it was slipping around like ice on a hot surface, yet it was also so wonderfully _real_. The assurance he felt here was like nothing he’d ever felt in that _other_ world.

‘Yes of course! My, he’s become so irritated and obnoxious since you’ve been gone, much more than he was before. He barely shows his face anymore, and you should see him with travellers – heavens…! He sets a bad example for the rest of us you know.’

Watson smirked at the thought of his old friend peevish and snarky, just like he remembered him. To think that he had spent all these years alone and thinking the worst sent a new desperation into him.

‘Where is he?’ he looked up to see the rabbit had already began hopping away, a little pocket watch held up to his ear and being shaken furiously.

‘Where he always is.’ He told him over his shoulder. ‘In his “herb” garden.’

 

 …

 

Watson had run the whole way to the gardens, and only when he came to the long grasses did he hesitate. Struck by the struggle of what to possibly say to his best friend after all these lost years, Watson carefully moved his way through the grass and exotic purpling flowers that had always made his nose itch. He could see the haze hovering above the various plants before the smoke reached him, and knew he was getting closer.

‘Who, are _you_?’

Sherlock’s voice lingered on the slowly swaying stalks of ferns and the fuzzy tops of dandelions six times taller than any Watson had ever seen in New York. Watson remained quite, any semblance of a reply drying in his throat. But he knew this routine – remembered it like turning the first page of a beloved book. Craning his neck, Watson glanced over the tops of the blood red opium flowers and aquamarine berries that were grabbing at him like they themselves were welcoming him home. He was at the edge of the smoke cloud now – whatever mysterious concoction Sherlock was smoking had successfully hidden his whereabouts.

‘Sound posture,’ His voice came again, as rich and smooth as honey. ‘Strong stride. Not in a hurry, then. You don’t need  _my_ help, so why are you here?’ Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer – he didn’t need to. ‘Ah, a curious soul, with wonder and perhaps hope in his heart. You’ve travelled far, I take it.’

 _Far indeed,_ Watson thought wryly. Following his voice, he started to see a dark, towering shape through the cloud of pipe smoke.

‘Yes, clearly, from all that dust,’ he was beginning to ramble to himself, like he usually did when he was bored and filling in the time. He really mustn’t have many clients anymore…

‘And a heavy wood… Ah yes, the Eldertree and those _ridiculous_ little fey.’ He grumbled. Sherlock emerged in front of him out of the smoke, his back to Watson as he puffed on his hookah atop of the enormous redcap mushroom, which billowed around him like a velvet cushion. Watson stood there in an overwhelming rush of mystified silence.

‘But there’s something more, something familiar… Cotton and chestnut and…’ his voice ebbed, trying to figure out the last scent, but also trying to remember why the combination was suddenly significant, before Watson heard him suck in a breath as he made the connection, before he spun around in disbelief, dropping the hookah as he stared down at the huge grey cat, its great blue eyes shining up at him.

For the first time years, the Blue Caterpillar smiled gleefully.

Watson grinned back, ‘And sandalwood.’ He finished.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue where on earth this idea came from, but if you made it this far, then THANK YOU so much for following me through the rabbit hole!


End file.
